Thursday, January 24, 2008

On The Impetus For My Blog Title

As I have alluded to previously, I have a weird relationship with my ex-wife. One could say that she turned me out sexually with the ease of a 300 pound convict 10 years into a life bid, who is serendipitously assigned a waifish teenage first-time-offender as his cellmate.

I had never really dated a sista before I met her. I went to the whitest of white schools. As J.D. Salinger might say, it was a goddamn boarding school for christsakes. Following that, I attended a similarly homogeneous liberal arts college. Even during my 2 year stint in the Army, I was never really around a lot of black girls. The ones that I was acquainted with weren’t feeling the Depeche Mode t-shirts, ripped blue jeans and Vasque hiking boots, which were representative of my typical attire at that time. White girls, on the other hand, paid me much greater attention, and that’s who I dated throughout my school and military years.

So, when I met the ex, who was then a 17 year old (which is perfectly legal in these parts) ghetto girl, with big lips (something that I find irresistible on a woman) big attitude, big earrings and big big titties, it was a revelatory experience. I wouldn’t say that she was more sexually experienced than other girls whom I had dated. I went out with some freaky lude-popping hippy-chicks before I met her. She was, however, far more pragmatic about relationships than either myself or any girl with whom I had thence far been involved. She had a streetwise hardened exterior, not uncommon in girls who grew up “in the hood,” staying out to all hours of the morning, going to clubs at the age of 15 and accustomed to guys trying to run games on her.

She had a few sexual hang-ups about things like oral sex. I specifically refer to fellatio, which was largely considered as “nasty” and/or something only done by white girls. Having her pussy sucked for hours on end didn’t present the same kind of culturally informed moral dilemma. Neither did fucking. She loved—and apparently still loves, not that you could prove it by me—to fuck. For a 20 year old man, fresh off active military service, with a B.A. in communications, right around 10 grand in the bank, a house (you can buy a house for a song in the city of Detroit proper, provided that you don’t mind living in the ghetto. And, as a 6’ 6¾” tall black man with an AR-15 and a piece of shit Ruger P-85, I didn’t) and, as yet, no post-military job, this was ideal. We fucked all day every day. FYI: I have repeatedly qualified as an expert marksman (the highest Army ranking) with both 9mm handguns and the military equivalent of my AR-15, an M16-A2 rifle… for that matter I’m also an expert with an M-203 grenade launcher, but I’ve never owned one personally.

That ought to be enough exposition. As to the matter of my blog title, it doesn’t directly concern the ex. It was inspired by another woman, with whom I’ve had an off-again-on-again, purely sexual, relationship for several years. Malika is cut from the same sociologic cloth as my ex-wife. She grew up in the same area under roughly the same circumstances. She is quite a bit more overtly kinky than Debra, and she is also bisexual. I’ve long suspected that my ex has a touch of bisexuality as well—and my grandmother was convinced of it by reasons which she never explained—but she has never admitted to it.

My relationship with Malika was kinky from the start. We were never boyfriend and girlfriend. In all of the years that I’ve known her, we’ve only gone out a handful of times. Like the ex (and if you ask me, every sista in the Detroit metropolitan area) she too has a preference for huge dicks. She also shares her penchant for clubbing (something I’ve never had an interest in as I don’t drink.) In large part, my attraction to Malika was motivated by how much she reminded me of Debra. Our relationship has always been predicated on the late-night booty call. Typically, she would call me when she got home from “the club,” as they say. Or, she would call me on her way home from some big-dick nigga’s house, having already been to the aforementioned club. In either event, one of us would go to the other’s house and we’d do the nasty until just before the time when she had to get her kid ready for school, and then part ways.

I have never known anyone who can stay out all night, night after night, the way that she can and then actually go to work the next morning. That kind of bullshit would kill me. When she’d call me at around 3:00 A.M., I would have already been asleep for 5 or 6 hours. Apparently, burning the candle at both ends doesn’t faze her, as she has been doing it for as long as I’ve known her.

I’m inclined to believe that Malika wanted a more serious relationship with me. She intimated as such on a couple of occasions, but she never pressed the issue. I think that she realized that I was still in love with Debra, and that any attempt to form a serious relationship was doomed to fail. I haven’t encountered many women who are amenable to the idea of having a man who will jump the instant that his ex-wife cracks the whip.

Somewhere along the line our sexual association evolved from one where we’d run the gamut of sexual activities to one wherein I found myself in the familiar position of being her pussy-licker, albeit Malika, unlike Debra, likes the combination of simultaneous dildo fucking/cunnilingus. I’m sure that I initiated the change. I’m also certain that it was motivated out of a decidedly unheathy desire to recreate the same quasi-D/s dynamic that I had with Debra.

Late one summer night, several years back, she called me from her car and asked if I wanted to come eat her pussy when she got home. I was, of course, game. Eating pussy is my sexual raison d’être. (Oddly, at least to me, I never really liked to go down on white chicks. I’d do it if I didn’t think that I could get out of it, but it was always something of a chore. With black women, however, I am obsessed with it. I actually own a pair of floor-tiler’s kneepads. These are very good for preventing knee discomfort when kneeling at the foot of a woman’s bed (or in front of her couch) for an extended period of time. I recommend them over skater’s kneepads, which have a tendency to slide on hardwood floors or pillows, which don’t offer enough support over the long haul. When I arrived at Malika’s house (Glock 17 in tow—I had long since sold the P-85 at a gun show at Gibraltar Trade Center North. Gibraltar Trade Center is a week-end swap meet full of gun-nuts, tattoo artists and guys selling swords—what is it with white guys and swords?—in the redneck enclave of Mount Clemons, Michigan. For those unfamiliar with Metro Detroit, Mt. Clemons is Kid Rock country… and not too far from Eminem country) there was a note taped to her door addressed to yours truly. Without explanation, it instructed me to refrain from ringing her doorbell. It went on to say that I should go somewhere and kill 90 minutes (specifically 90 minutes) and that she would then call me. So, horny and more than a little intrigued, I went to a 24 hour Super Kmart in Dearborn. Generally, I avoid Dearborn. It has a long history of not being negro-friendly. However, since I didn’t want to drive back north of 8 mile rd. (Detroit’s answer to the Berlin Wall) and since I had a permit to carry my trusty 9mm, I took a chance. Basically, I just wandered around the store, which is similar in size and mission, to Walmart store in other states. I browsed the hardware aisles (always an easy way for a man to kill time) and, true to her word, Malika called me at around 4:30. If memory serves, I took the opportunity to purchase some black socks. A man can never have too many pairs of black socks.

When I got back to Malika’s house, she was waiting at the door. So, I was once again thwarted in my desire to ring her doorbell at an ungodly hour of the night. We had to be quiet since her son and her mother (who lived in her house and not the other way around) were sleeping. Once in her boudoir (which, contrary to popular opinion, does NOT mean bedroom in French. It means finger-sponge-cake.) she told me that another brotha (this one being of the dick-hangs-down-his-leg variety) had called her from around the corner from her house shortly after she had called me. And since, unlike myself, he could “hit bottom” without even trying, I was forced into a holding pattern until he had dicked her down and left. Just before I got down to the serious business of sucking her well-fucked pussy until she couldn't take it anymore, she mentioned her surprise that hadn’t said fuck it and gone home. When I replied that since she'd put a note on the door, apprising me of the necessity to kill some time, I'd done just that, she remarked with apparent pleasure that “Debra trained you well.” Thus my blog title!

9 comments:

"I actually own a pair of floor-tiler’s kneepads. These are very good for preventing knee discomfort when kneeling at the foot of a woman’s bed (or in front of her couch) for an extended period of time"

And I'm mad at you for being drop dead fucking gorgeous. I can't even imagine what that must be like. I bet that people give you things, and smile at you a lot.

Seriously though, I put down a floor with my cousin once. That's where I got the idea. If you can kneel on an unfinished concrete floor for 8 hours wearing those things, then kneeling in a carpeted bedroom for an hour and a half to two hours is a piece of cake.

Ninety minutes is about average for me. As long as the sista in question keeps coming in my face, I'm going to keep licking. When you're of just slightly above average endowment and you're dealing with a woman who is used to brothas with double-digit dicks (and I'm talking inches, not centimeters)it pays to have a bionic tongue. If I could knock the bottom out without even putting it all inside her, then I doubt if I'd be so attentive.

Lola: I'll do that. FYI: I'm only petit (I can't bring myself to append an e because in French that would denote the feminine form of small) by way of comparison. Compared with the total male population, I'm actually slightly above average... which at my height still looks amall (at least to sistas.)

In His Place

About Me

I'm a firm believer in domestic matriarchy, gynarchy, female-led relationships or whatever you'd like to call it. I am not, however, into the theatrical accoutrement of BDSM; whips, chains, leather, cross-dressing and what have you. I am simply most comfortable with my woman making the rules and having the final word... and putting her foot in my ass when I forget my place.